In the heart of the Grove of Elysium, where sunlight paints shadows on the earth’s canvas, the ancient trees murmured their confessions. Each sigh was encrypted in a dialect older than rivers, a language woven from the sinews of root and branch.
Beneath a cloak of mossy whispers, secrets nestled deep, preserved within the rings of centuries past. The draught of loss and revelation echoed, as trees rendered memories in patterns of bark and leaf. A witness to every tempest, a keeper of whispers that wept in silence.
The driftwood that lay upon the forest floor cradled stories of endless voyages—its grain a map of forgotten shores, its surface eroded by the gentle caress of time and tide. Through time and salt, its voice grew, a testament to the cycles of renewal and decay.
When the moon bathed the grove in silver light, the trees spoke louder, their cryptic letters unfurling within the dreams of any who dared to listen. Underneath, paths revealed themselves, winding towards destinies entwined in the embrace of roots and branches.
Those who interpreted the wood’s ancient script found themselves charting courses on unseen maps, their lives intertwined with the slow, deliberate dance of the spheres.